A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (16 page)

When Spencer entered the study it was to see Ainsley Becket sitting behind his desk, dressed in his customary black, his elbow on the arm of his chair, slowly rubbing at his chin.
The spider sitting smack in the middle of his web.

"Can we be sure it's Beales?" Spencer asked without preamble, taking up one of the chairs that had been placed on the far side of the desk. He wanted it to be Beales. He wanted this to be over. He wanted to be free to go to Mariah, tell her everything, and then set out with her, with William, to build a new life. One without shadows.

Ainsley stared into space for another moment, probably reliving something Spencer didn't want to know, and then sat forward, leaning his elbows on the desktop. "Not at all, Spencer. We may have raised an entirely different monster out of the muck and mire of conspiracy that always surrounds these things. We may even be facing someone who only wants your gold, and Bonaparte and his resurrection be damned."

"But you don't think so. "

"No, I don't. At the very least, we've flushed out someone who is interested in freeing Bonaparte from his Elba and setting him loose in Europe yet again. Because this person truly believes France will be better with Bonaparte than without him, or because this person has even higher aspirations."

"As Bonaparte, just because of his successes in France, may inspire the unhappy here in England to mount a revolution of their own, as peace certainly has yet to translate to prosperity for most Englishmen." Spencer went on as Jacko settled himself on the couch behind him. "Which could even end with a new order here in England, one without a king. I've been thinking about that, Papa. Wouldn't our royal family simply then be replaced by the Emperor Napoleon?"

"Ah, but would it?" Ainsley picked up the brass paperweight and began idly palming it as he spoke. "Try, if you will, to think like a man who desires power more than anything else. Power and, of course, money."

Spencer stood up and went to the drinks table, pouring himself a glass of wine. "Bonaparte, not as emperor, not as the new ruler of England and its empire, but merely as a means to an end?"

"Most everything and anyone can be considered a means to an end, if that end is one that benefits only your own ambitions, yes," Ainsley agreed, taking a small sip from his own wineglass. "I don't believe overtly ruling nearly half the world would be Edmund's passion. He might be happier with someone else in the seeming position of power while he stood in the shadows and pulled all the strings. Tell me, Spencer, from what we know of Napoleon Bonaparte—do you think he would be content to be a figurehead?"

"No," Spencer said. "A ruler rules and that would be how Bonaparte would see himself. So, if we believe this tapestry you're weaving, Papa, Bonaparte becomes a means to an end. And dispensable at some point, to be replaced with someone more.. .amiable. If this is Beales, if this is truly how he thinks, he plays a dangerous game, with very large chess pieces."

Ainsley nodded. "That's always been his ambition. I very much remember a conversation, a series of conversations, I once had with Edmund. Coming to the islands at all, privateering, was a means to an end. Turning pirate from time to time was a means to an end in a world where our enemies seemed to change almost daily. Attack a French ship one day and you're a privateer, acting within the law. Attack a French ship another day and you're a pirate, acting outside the law. Especially as we were carrying Letters of Marque from more than one country, which put us outside everyone's laws."

"It was a different time, Cap'n "

"True, Jacko, but still regrettable "

"Ah, Cap'n, time blurs things, doesn't it? You don't see me doing penance, do you? We were bad men in a worse world and I'm still proud of that."

At last, Ainsley smiled. 'True, Jacko. We were bad men, weren't we, and we enjoyed ourselves mightily for a time. But we're discussing the means to an end. That end for me, as I eventually learned to my considerable surprise, was security for my family, for my men and their families, and an eventual return to England and respectability. But that was never enough for Edmund."

"Nothing was ever enough for that bastard, Cap'n."

"Again, true, Jacko. The man's love of money is only exceeded by his love of power. He asked me once if I'd rather be a king or the man who controlled a king and, through that king, controlled everything and everyone else. Kings, you see, still have to answer to laws, to the people. The man behind the scenes, tugging all the strings? He's a law unto himself. Edmund greatly admired Richelieu, you know, warning only that, unlike the cardinal, he would never trust anyone and would never be reticent to act in his own best interests. I should have believed him, should have realized that he didn't exclude me, supposedly his most trusted friend and partner, from those he found expendable."

"Don't go beating up on yourself for that again, Cap'n. He fooled us all, for more than a dozen years," Jacko said quietly.

"No, Jacko, he didn't," Ainsley said on a sigh. "Knowing what I knew, I
allowed
myself to be fooled. But to get back to Edmund and those he admired, as we should know a man by knowing those he admires Machiavelli was another. Edmund carried copies of
The Prince
and the
Discourses on Livy
with him everywhere, wherein Machiavelli put forth his belief that a healthy body politic is kept strong by means of social friction and even conflict, not rigid stability."

"Conflict—war. Power for the sake of power," Spencer said, cudgeling his brain for memories of the man. "But didn't you teach us, Papa, that Machiavelli's fault was that all he could do was amass power and more power, but that he never knew what to do with what he'd won—so that was all he was left with, always striving for more and more power? Conflict results in winners, even more wealth and, of course, power. Peace, stability, in that case, would be the worst enemy of his aims."

"Very good, Spencer. How comforting to know that I haven't been speaking into a void with you children all these years. Edmund never planned on making Machiavelli's mistake, either. He would concern himself only with power and the accumulation of riches and let others fall while governing, always with his eyes on the next winner, the next prize. He builds nothing, Spencer, he only destroys. Has destroyed..."

Spencer, for just a moment, felt he could actually see the destruction Beales had brought to the island. To all their lives. "I...I thought he wanted Isabella. I thought that was why he did what he did."

"Easy, Cap'n." Jacko slid in smoothly from his seat on the couch. "The boy means no harm."

Spencer turned in his seat to look at Jacko. It wasn't often the man protected any of them, preferring that they stand or fall on their own. What had he said? And was he protecting Spencer or Ainsley?

Ainsley stood up and walked over to the window to look out into the darkness, but he saw only his own reflection in the glass; his hands clasped tightly together behind his back. "My wife was someone he wanted, yes. We were leaving, Spencer, giving up the life. Taking what we had and leaving. Edmund couldn't allow that. Not us leaving and most certainly not me taking my share of—of our profits."

He turned away from the window to look at Spencer. "In the end, he came away with neither...yet we were the ones who lost everything of importance."

It was quiet for a long time after that, until a log fell in the grate. Spencer got to his feet, understanding so much more now than when he'd first entered the room. 'Tell me exactly what it is you want me to do, Papa."

Ainsley seemed to shake himself back from wherever he had gone yet again...a dark hell that hadn't faded even after sixteen long years.

"Show yourself in your usual places. Wait to be contacted. Don't be subservient, but don't overplay your hand, either. Listen rather than talk, and speak only to dangle promises and number your conditions. Observe."

Jacko spoke from behind him. "Billy'll be nosing around the men our stranger brought with him. Drinking in the same tavern, his sharp eyes watching, his elephant ears flapping in the breeze, picking up anything he can."

"Billy?" Spancer smiled. "That bandy-legged old seadog? I thought he was still with Chance, playing the protector."

"You know Billy," Jacko said, grinning. "He can be anywhere. With the chance of bringing down Beales, we couldn't much have this party without my good friend and shipmate, could we? And nobody notices. Forgettable, that's our Billy boy. And he won't let Beales see him."

"I didn't see him, that's for certain," Spencer said, shaking his head. "All right. So I listen, don't say much—and arrange another meeting, promising to bring along my superior, as well?"

"Unless he looks at the man-and sees the boy," Jacko pointed out cheerily. "Then you'll be fish bait, won't you?"

"It is a risk, Spencer. You were only about ten years old and only on the island for a few months, but the possibility he'll recognize you is always there," Ainsley told him.

"We don't even know if this is Beales, if he's involved at all, or if he'd come to Calais himself rather than send one of his hirelings." Spencer thought about Mariah for a moment, his son for two more, and then shook his head. "No, sir. I've come this far. I'll go the rest of the way."

"All-right then," Ainsley said, retaking his seat behind the desk. "You'll recognise him?"

Spencer sat down, as well. 'Tall. Thin. Black hair; black eyes. Hungry eyes that constantly darted every-where, missed nothing. He spoke quickly, almost too fast for me to understand him. A certain.. .greasiness about all of him, no matter that he always seemed to. dress well. Oh, and always chewing, on some dark green leaves he carried with him. Strange, the things a child remembers."

"Coca leaves "Ainsley said, nodding. "Edmund believed they increased his intelligence and abilities. He may continue the habit and it would be a good way to recognize him after all these years."

"Yes, I'll keep that in mind. But, truly, I remember the Frenchman more. He thought I was looking at him too hard one day and picked me up at the neck with one hand, breathed his foul breath into my face as I choked and turned blue, kicking to get free. He asked me if I wanted to die with his knife in my ribs—
avant que vous ayez baisé une femme, peu de pousse."

He gave a single shake of his head. "I asked Odette-what that meant and she slapped my mouth, then told me. That's about the only French I can remember, not that that particular phrase came in all that handy while I was in Montreal. Yes, I remember the Frenchman better."

"Before you'd fucked a woman, little sprout?" Jacko said, then laughed. "Did you piss your pants
then, peu de pousse?"

"Damn near," Spencer admitted, smiling. "He's mine, by the way, if he's still above ground."

"S'il vous satisfait,"
Ainsley said,
if it pleases you,
and then sighed as he leaned back in his chair. "I'd forgotten the observant Jules. It could be him, you know. Can you hold your temper if it is?"

"Jules, Beales, whoever it is, I know what I need to do. Promise everything and arrange another meeting. And you'll really travel to France?"

If it were possible to crush the brass paperweight, it would have buckled beneath Aihsley's white-knuckled grip. "At once, if that was all that needed doing. But it isn't, Spencer. If this is Edmund, whatever he's up to, we need to know his plans, which may very well involve others and be far enough along to go forward without him. My mind tells me he's planning Bonaparte's escape from Elba, to unleash him on Europe at the least and England, too, at the worst. I broke many laws in the past, Spencer, did things I'm not proud of, and now, at last, I may have the opportunity to make some sort of peace with the world. Personal revenge has to wait on destroying Edmund's plans. We have to be sure. That will take patience."

"Even when it's over, I am still to leave Edmund Beaies for you," Spencer said, getting to his feet once more. "I understand that. More now than ever. Is there anything else?"

"Let out your string slowly, Spencer," Ainsley called after him as he headed for the hallway. "Be receptive but careful, and plan another meeting in a fortnight to turn over the bulk of the funds you say you can deliver. You still need to be convinced and, for that, Edmund or his representative is going to have to tell you what he's doing with this gold you'll be giving him. Remember to contain that temper of yours. The plan may go on without him, and I owe England more than that."

Ainsley had repeated himself, something he never did. His blood was running, his apprehension concerning Spencer showing. He must really believe it was Beales who had come to Calais in that closed coach....

"I'll come back whole, Papa," Spencer said with the hint of a smile. "I promise."

Jacko followed Spencer into the hallway where Clovis and Anguish were waiting. He pulled him aside, glaring at the other two men until they backed a good six feet away.

"He's convinced it's Beales, you know," Jacko whispered in his own gruff way. "Me, I' m not so sure. I'm not so sure I even want it to be Beales. Lot of memories here, bucko, none of them lovely. And a lot to lose."

"Gentlemen, I agree."

Both Spencer and Jacko turned to see Jack Eastwood standing behind them, a thin, unlit cheroot clamped between his teeth. Tall, slim, with lines cut into his cheeks and a way of measuring a man with his narrowed eyes—Spencer had seen those same sharp eyes soften whenever Eleanor came into view. A man's man but also a man in love.